Sea Islands 300 : 11-Amelia Island Questing

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It’s a clear cool morning and we’re feeling peppy. Today we will say goodbye to Florida – sayonara, see ya later alligator! When we cross the St. Mary’s River for Cumberland Island we’ll be in Georgia.

But first, we have to continue questing for Doug’s phone case. We get coffee and bagels in a busy little bakery on Centre Street, browse a fine independent bookstore, and start strolling east – past stately old Victorian homes and Spanish Moss draped parks. 

The quest is not immediately promising. We debate whether to consult a local oracle or perhaps just turn back. Then we come to a computer store in a former 7-11. Maybe here? Alas, it’s still closed at this early hour. Too bad, I say, because this is IT. Says IT right on the sign, “Your source for all IT needs.” I’m certain IT is inside.

I shake the door again, discouraged.

Suddenly a black van emblazoned with a hair salon sign drives up, and out steps a young native. (His mom the chauffeur?) He has metal tubes distending his ear lobes, shaggy black locks, and baggy black pantaloons, draped about the waist are chrome chains that swing extravagantly as he lopes toward us. Tattoos of arcane symbols festoon his arms. Perhaps he is a resident shaman. He approaches, nods, then stands between us as he begins to unlock the door.

Astonished by our luck, Doug and I exchange quick looks that say we agree it’s worth the risk, so I ask, “We were wondering if you might have a case to hold this Galaxy we’re carrying around in our pocket?” 

“Which Galaxy?”

“A26”

“Nope. You might try the Target.”

“Bullseye. Where is that?” 

He points vaguely off in the distance to the south.

We continue walking a few more blocks. But with nothing in sight, decide it’s too far. Maybe there isn’t such a place, and like other natives he’s just mis-directing us away. We give up and turn back.

Off the main drag, in the quiet neighborhoods.

Circling back toward the harbor, we wander through the residential village, and soon come to a rustic Trading Post set off in trees. We stop and consider. Whatever they have in there must be very valuable – there are bars on all the windows and doors.

There’s a sign that says “1 Student at a time”. Maybe it’s the temple of a priest or spiritual guide?

Doug decides we need some supplies. He will forage inside while I make inquiries. 

A bell jangles when we open the door. Inside is a curated collection of regional foods and dubious delectations: deep fried pork rinds, dried beef jerky (is it really beef?), pickled bird eggs, dried and salted sliced tubers. Live worms and minnows. There’s a strong odor of old fish. Deer heads and stuffed bobcats on the walls. Faded photos of hunters and fishermen proudly posing with their kills. Marvelous, really, but nothing we want for the larder.

Some sort of soothsayer is held captive in a magical cage made of thick glasslike crystal, apparently forced to watch over the trade goods. Maybe he is under a spell and imprisoned as punishment for offending a local chieftain. Caution is advised, I think. I have to speak to him through a slot in the translucent cube. 

“Would you have anything that would hold a Galaxy?” Shakes head, does not appear to speak English. “The Fountain of Youth?” Again, shakes head. If it’s here, he will not divulge its location. Or maybe the spell has also made him mute.

Through pantomimes try to negotiate a trade for some cow’s milk. But he won’t accept the plastic cards issued by the bank of our king. Nor pieces of paper on which we offer to write our names. Digging into various pockets we find a few shiny coins made of fake silver and copper. These he will accept, but only for a smaller vial of cow’s milk. A sharp trader, this holy man.

We wend our way back to the harbor, ampule of cow’s milk in hand. The quest continues . . .

Sea Islands 300 : 10-Fernandina Beach on Amelia Island

The harbor at Fernandina Beach, Florida

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While tidying up Tidings, and ourselves, we’re startled by a husband and wife scuba diver team (whose metier is scrubbing the bottoms of boats in the harbor). I thought they were manatees. Doug tells a story about a scuba diver who repaired his centerboard pennant. He was befriended by manatees. So friendly, in fact, Doug had to distract them while the diver worked or they would muzzle their way into everything he was doing.

Recomposed and presentable, we walk across the tracks to the historic commercial district of Fernandina Beach, the heirloom brooch pinned to the bodice of Amelia Island.

The old train station in Fernandina Beach. The train runs all along the waterfront next to the harbor.
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Wind Powered Sawmill

One of our daughters and son-in-law moved overseas eight years ago. We tried for years to go see them. As teachers, they have regular breaks to travel. Our simple idea was to meet them somewhere, anywhere. But a worldwide pandemic got in the way, among other things. Plans were made, and cancelled, and made again and cancelled again. It happens. Finally, eight years later, everything fell into place.

They now live in the desert of Saudi Arabia, so they wanted to go somewhere wet and green for spring break. Where else but The Netherlands?

Water everywhere

We spent a week in a small cottage in the country, a bit north of Amsterdam. Water everywhere. And windmills. The nearest town of Zaandijk has a train station, bakery, brewery, and couple of cafes, and was just a short bike ride away. A ride along dikes and levees past a dozen working windmills.

Cafe in Zaandijk

One evening we took the train back from Amsterdam. We walked from the station to the cottage, stopping for dinner in a small cafe. After dinner, we walked the rest of the way back in the moonlight. It was amazing, the windmills whooshing overhead like giant birds flapping in a starry sky. Flocks of geese and ducks in the canals and the polders cackled, adding to the surreal effect.

One morning while the others eased slowly out of bed, I rode by as the windmill crews were just opening up. Several of the mills earn their keep doing the same work they’ve done for hundreds of years. One is a working sawmill. At that early hour there were no crowds to contend with – I was the only visitor. Most of the crews are older men who work the mill, and a few young apprentices have joined them. One of the old Dutch guys saw how interested I was and gave me a personal tour, explaining in detail how it all works (in fluent English), and the history of that particular mill.

“The Young Sheep”
Young Apprentices

This mill, Het Jong Schaap (“The Young Sheep”), had been in continuous operation for over 400 years, right up until WWII and the Nazi Occupation. Things became so desperate during the war that townspeople needed to dismantle the mill for firewood. But before they did, they documented in detail every piece they removed. Years after the war those plans were found. Funds were raised and the mill rebuilt exactly as it was, along with many others along the Zaans River.

Work Shoes

Inside the mill, I was immediately struck by the sound – it’s like being inside an enormous breathing animal. The pace of respiration rises and falls with natural rhythm of the wind. From slow and steady, like the beast is sleeping, to rapid and muscular.

The canvas on the vanes are trimmed like sails to match the strength of the wind, and the whole head is turned with a crank to follow the wind direction as well, just like a sailing ship. In fact, as he was explaining how the gears work, he suddenly stopped short and made a quick adjustment to take advantage of a gust, which he heard instinctively – just like we do in our small wooden boats. “Just the same, it’s the same principle,” he said.

After the sound, there’s smell of fresh sawdust, and everywhere the rich golden glow of sunlight on wood. No reek of petroleum or exhaust, no screech and whine of industrial motors. Just heaving and sighing.

The whole apparatus is built like a big clock inside, and every step of the process is automated and facilitated by the power of the wind harnessed by the vanes. A windlass winds a hawser that hauls logs from the river up the ramp and into the mill, then lifts them onto a carriage where the log is dogged in place. Then another gear, ticking like a slow second hand watch gear, moves the log and carriage steadily into the blades as they pump up and down, the blades driven by a crank shaft turned in the attic by the wind.

The blades are spaced with wooden blocks measured down to the millimeter. Using a combination of blades and spacers, they can cut thin planks and thick timbers from the same log in a single pass. With good wind, they can cut three logs at once, running all three saws side by side.

Spacer blocks, sorted to millimeter precision.

My guide, knowing I was a sailor, told me they recently had a commission to make a new mast for a large sailing ship. Cut eight sided and tapered. They used a single log 40 feet long, floated down rivers and canals from the Black Forest in Germany. There are small doors at the back of the mill just for this purpose – opened to let oversized pieces extend out through the walls.

Some video of the mill, with that amazing sound:

Art at Altitude

We recently made a short trip to New Mexico for a family event. I’ll post photos and backstory about that soon, was a great trip. I took a little travel kit of sketchbook and watercolor markers to have something to do during the downtime. A big chunk of downtime is just flights and layovers. Jammed into a tiny seat on a tiny table at 30,000 feet above Louisiana, it had time to do a little study of a winter cattail.

Working from memory is oddly easier than working from a photo. The thing about watercolor is it has a mind of its own and may not want to cooperate. Especially true when you’re still a newbie and don’t know how to predict what will happen, or coerce it to do what you had in mind. But working from memory, you get into a sort of feedback loop with the paint and water and paper. Instead of trying to force it to look like the photo, you get into a conversation with it. Dabble a little pigment and water on the paper, then respond to whatever happens, play off the result and add to that.

Sometimes an accident results in an interesting effect that’s worth amplifying, then following to see where it goes. When you try to reproduce a photo, you can get caught into a frustrating loop, trying to recreate one visual medium with another – but the results are not comparable. It’s a sort of dead end with no exit and no way to backtrack.

I may unhitch my intentions from that mooring and just follow where the wind blows, see where we end up.

Crossing Over

The outboard on the skiff died, the one that ferries us over. Her father, the waterman, boat builder, sawmiller, got it running again.

“Go on over,” he said around a cigarette, “if you get stuck I’ll come get ya. “

She took our old friends across the marsh. I followed behind, paddling against the breeze that rattled through the sawgrass